


Grumpy Old Spies: Respect your Elders Affair

by Batagur



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-10
Updated: 2015-07-10
Packaged: 2018-04-08 16:01:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4311486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Batagur/pseuds/Batagur
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An illegal arms dealer learns about espionage the hard (and permanent) way. It's all about the Old School</p>
            </blockquote>





	Grumpy Old Spies: Respect your Elders Affair

**Author's Note:**

> beta'd by the_haunt because you deserve the very best. Any residual booboos are my own damn fault.

The perimeter guards were slacking off. Nine PM, it must have been close to a shift change. A silent figure took advantage of a guard's protracted moment of fidgeting to slip quietly from the shadows of a small stand of trees and align himself flat against the adjacent wall. Head to toe in black with his face concealed from the nose down, he moved slowly forward, inching ever closer to the corner and the guard just beyond. He struck with unrelenting speed, like a coral snake. Rounding the corner, he silenced the guard with a backward pull on the man's head. The guard's head connected with the wall with a sickening thud, and the unfortunate man sank to the ground in a heap. Before he moved on, he made sure to empty the guard's uzi of its clip. He tossed it towards the woods as he slipped back into the shadows. 

The next guard, stationed near an unmarked service door, was no more alert than the first parameter guard had been. He easily slipped behind the guard unnoticed. The black leather-gloved hand reached out to take hold of the ill-fated guard's shaved head as he turned sending the guard face-first into the cinder block wall. A wide, dark streak of blood from the man's crushed nose stained the wall as he slid down to the ground. This second guard he searched carefully until he found what he needed: a key card.

Inside, the halls were silent except for the buzz of a failing ballast on one of the lines of florescent lights mounted in the ceiling tiles. His soft boots moved smoothly down the linoleum-tiled hall. He seemed to float effortlessly forward with the grace of a dancer, his hands held out, balancing his every movement. He froze like a stalking leopard as two men rounded the corner before him. Neither was armed. Both men hesitated in panic as they realized the security of the compound had been breached. Finally the larger of the two men ran forward in attack while calling to the other to get help. . One would think this guard would be more than a match for him. 

He watched the guard barreled towards him recklessly and was only mildly amazed at the man's folly of attacking an unknown threat without some sort of weapon. . After a simple side-step, hooking the guard as he passed with a remarkably strong arm, he pressed his hip into the guard's side sending the man airborne. For a brief moment, he noted the look of sheer astonishment on the guard's face as he arched gracefully in a controlled flight; then he slammed the guard to the linoleum with a force that must have both stunned and drove the wind from the man. He struck before the guard could recover; his fist jabbed downward and his knuckles smashed into the guard's windpipe fracturing it. The man made a gurgling struggle for air until he passed out from lack of oxygen. Death soon followed. 

Not pausing to verify that his adversary was truly dead, he flew in the direction of the other guard, following the man's banging footfalls and ragged calls for help. This guard was slightly overweight, easy prey to a deadly predator like himself. Before he caught up with him, the fat man pulled a gun that he suddenly remembered he had, He lunged forward, pinning the fat man's arm, making the .38 useless. They struggled, both of them ramming into the corridor walls with a force strong enough to jar brains. 

From the corner of his eye, he noted two new guards, alerted by the shouting, arrived a few meters away. They turned their guns to the fray and fired without hesitation. The look of frozen shock on the fat man's face became his death mask as he turned the fat man into the fire; the man's larger body was a perfect shield. He then manipulated the fat man's hand that still gripped the .38, and squeezed off three shots around his dead and slackening fingers. Then there was silence. 

After letting the dead body fall away, he inspected his work briefly: there were three dead here and one dead about 15 meters back. He glided on, now carrying the fat man's .38. Finally, he came to a small foyer at the end of the corridor. There were three doors. Two led to unknown places but the third had a small rectangle window that showed a lit stair. 

Melting into the shadows, he moved towards the stairwell, slipping through the doorway fluidly. As he moved with swift grace up the stairs, he heard a door on a floor above him creak open and the sound of male voices speaking urgently. Two men came clattering down the stairs. They descended the three flights, immersed in their conversation, and exited through the hall door.

Once the stairwell was clear, he bled out of the shadows under the metal stair, stepping down from where he had compact his body in the sloping crevice. He rounded the stair rail quickly and sprinted back up the stair. The two men would find the bodies in the hall soon, and then things would become much trickier. 

He made it through the third floor door when a loud klaxon began to sound. The gig was up. The time for stealth was over, and he broke into a run down the carpeted corridor. The first door to his right was locked. 

He slammed himself into the opposite door; it gave and he was in an alcove of some sort. Taking a chance, he headed right. The door he approached was unlocked and he found a short flight of stairs. Taking them up to a smaller alcove, he found two more men. They were far from ready for him as he barreled forward full tilt. He pulled one man down with a quick, clean jerk, then turned on his toes with the grace of a ballet dancer. He took the second man by the head, breaking his neck deftly with a quick twist. The man hit the floor, his head lolling. 

Just then he noticed the other man was recovering. He had time to look about him, to see what weapons he had at hand. They appeared to be in the balcony of an auditorium or a surgical theater. There were no seats, but there was a railing. Beyond three swinging surgical lights were visible, pointed to the surgical theater below.

Before the man could pull himself together, he knelt beside him, pummeling the man's face with a powerful thrust of the heel of his hand. There was a dull crunching noise and the man fell back dead, blood pouring from both nostrils. 

He heard no noise in the alcove but the sound of heavy footsteps on the short stair. There was no time to hang about. He headed for the balcony rail vaulting over blindly, falling three meters to land neatly on his toes. Curling into a ball to absorb the impact, he took a deep breath to steady himself. He was surrounded.

About eighteen men with guns pointed at his head stepped forward from around the room.

"It was only a matter of time. We have been waiting for you." A handsome young man in his mid-thirties stepped through the door. He held Napoleon Solo closely to himself. In his other hand was a shiny chrome gun, almost dainty and stylish, like a gun manufacturer would market to a woman. The man walked Napoleon past the frozen guards holding him at bay. 

He released Napoleon's arm for a moment to pull back the intruder's black hood and mask. Graying gold hair came free and a blue-eyed scowl fixed itself on the young man.

"Mr. Kuryakin," the young man said, smiling. 

Illya responded with a polite smile that did not light his eyes. "Daren Hayward, technology thief and illegal arms seller, I presume."

"Tisk tisk, Mr. Kuryakin," the man said with exaggerated chagrin. "As I explained to Mr. Solo, I'm an entrepreneur and a weapons designer, nothing more. I so hate it when I am misrepresented."

"Perish the thought…" Illya replied dryly.

Hayward gestured abruptly to one of his goons. "Chad, could you please relieve Mr. Kuryakin of his weapons?"

Hayward's man came forward, putting his weapon aside. He immediately relieved Illya of the .38 semiautomatic. He then began a pat down, finding Illya's two hunting knives, a pair of throwing stars, a derringer, his UNCLE special, his communicator, and one stiletto hidden within the belt of his clothing.

"Oh Chad?" Hayward said cheerfully. "Do not forget the gun in his boot."

Chad removed another .22 caliber semiautomatic from Illya's right boot.

"Well now," their young captor smiled. "Is that every little thing, Mr. Kuryakin?"

"I believe so," Illya replied with a touch of annoyance.

"Chad? Left boot," Hayward said.

The man unzipped Illya's left boot. Three more stilettos glinted from their strap sheaths. 

"My my, Mr. Kuryakin," Hayward said in a teasing voice that was liberally spiced with malice.

Illya shrugged. "I'm an old man… and forgetful." 

Hayward barked a short laugh of astonishment. "Old Man?" His eyes lit with excitement as he spoke. "The security cameras caught it all! The way you catwalked the perimeter fence without triggering the alarms; then you took out three men… Boom, Boom, Boom! No weapon…. Didn't know what hit 'em. Beautiful! Silent as all hell! Didn't even let your victims squeak. Didn't even use a gun until one was pulled on you…. You brought down eight of my best men… three with your bare hands! That's when I looked at my colleague Barrett, and I said, 'Now there you go, Barrett. That's old school.'"

"I only killed six. Two may merely be unconscious. One definitely has a broken nose," Kuryakin pointed out with aplomb. 

"Oh, no!" Hayward chuckled ecstatically. "They are dead. Dead, dead, dead!" He then nudged a large linebacker sized fellow wearing a flannel shirt and holding an assault riffle. "I had 'em checked. Dead, right, Barrett?"

"Yep," the black man intoned laconically, his eyes half-lidded in the classic, cool apathy of a modern 'homeboy.' So this was the 'colleague' Hayward had spoken of before. 

"Hmm." Kuryakin's eyebrows rose in dull interest. "Must be the Geritol."

Behind Hayward, Napoleon Solo coughed loudly, unsuccessfully concealing a smile behind his hand. 

"It was too sweet," Hayward continued enthusiastically.

"I am glad that I could amuse you. I hope this means you will not expect compensation for the damage and loss of personnel."

Hayward shook his head, laughing until tears formed in the corners of his eyes. "Naw… No, man, that won't be necessary," he finally choked out. He looked up, offering Illya a pleasant smile. "I'm going to sell you and your partner to the highest bidder." Here he broke into a silly giggle again. "You should see how many organizations are lining up to place a bid!" He choked a bit on his own laughter as he sputtered out, "I didn't even know THRUSH still existed! Yanno, I expected al-Qs and I-Jihad…. But wow!"

Solo finally spoke, "Hmm. In comparison to al-Qs and I-Jihad, I certainly hope THUSH wins the bidding."

"Oh, I bet you would!" Hayward looked back, chuckling unkindly. "That washed-up group of has-beens reminds me of Chaos from that TV show, 'Get Smart.' Sort of the militant wing of the Salvation Army, don'tcha think?"

"Mind your manners, sonny," Napoleon offered with a taunting grin. "These are cold-blooded killers we are talking about."

Hayward gave a quick, hard laugh, then sobered as he leveled his small pistol at Napoleon once more, "So am I, gramps. So am I."

Hayward signaled with his eyes to his lieutenant, Barrett, who then pushed Illya forward to join Napoleon. "Take 'em below."  
****

"Some things never change," Napoleon Solo groused as he toed the door frame of the room which he and his partner found themselves locked. It was a dank and musty little room without windows. Despite the obvious moisture in the, the wood of the frame was not rotten. He couldn't get the heavy door to budge from its hinges when he threw all his weight on it. After the first try, Illya shook his head and frowned.

"You had better stop now, Napoleon, or you will aggravate your bursitis."

Napoleon frowned back at his partner. Without his wire frame glasses, Illya looked younger than his seventy-one years. However, even with his glasses, the Russian looked younger than any man his age. Napoleon remembered a time when Illya's youthful appearance had made their adversaries underestimate his competence. Now his youthful appearance does the opposite; the enemy is all too wary of Mr. Kuryakin. It is Napoleon Solo, the gruff, old stuffed-shirt that they miscalculate these days.

"You're right," Napoleon sighed as he rubbed his shoulder. "Do you have some accelerant?" 

Illya blinked once at him, then reached into the loose folds of his gi and pulled out a slim metal flask from the inner pocket. "I'm afraid our host confiscated my torch," Illya said as he held the flask out to Napoleon. "It was in the hilt of one of my blades."

"Never mind that." Napoleon smiled sweetly, looking for all the world like someone's kindly old grandfather-turned-barracuda. "He didn't take mine."

Napoleon undid the metal clasp of his suspenders. Quickly, Illya helped him out of the bands and undid the back strap. Illya then stepped back to watch as Napoleon began to couple the metal clasps together, unhooking the support buckles. He took Illya's flask to screw into place.

"You had a torch," Illya said as he eyed Napoleon critically, "and you didn't have accelerant."

"I'm an old man… and forgetful." Napoleon mimicked his partner right down to his accent. 

"Humph!"

Using a small spark lighter that resembled a standard safety pin, Napoleon lit the mini torch. 

"Give me a hand here, or my pants are going to fall around my ankles." Napoleon gestured with his head for Illya to follow as he adjusted the flame on the torch.

"In a hurry?" Illya deadpanned the sarcastic remark.

"I'm gonna miss Matlock on A&E," Napoleon shot back with an equally straight face. "Just do me the favor of grabbing a belt loop and hanging on."

"You're serious."

"As a heart attack."

"Don't even joke like that, Napasha." Illya frowned at him. It was just over a year ago that Napoleon had had a mild heart attack. The episode had nearly caused Section One to revoke his field duty authorizations. 

"Do you have safety glasses?" Illya asked as Napoleon brought the flame towards the door lock.

Napoleon snorted in amusement. "Yes, mother." He then pulled a thick pair of reading glasses from his shirt pocket. 

"Didn't they search you at all?" Illya's frown intensified. He had obviously made note of how many things Napoleon still had on his person while he had been stripped of about everything.

"They took the gun and the communicator. They seemed content to stop there." Napoleon flashed a quick smile. 

"Humph!"

The small blue flame made easy work of the dead bolt. Napoleon turned off the torch, fanning the acrid smoke of burning wood and metal away from their faces. Illya released his pants and reached for the door.

"Hold on there, slapdash."

Illya snorted in annoyance. "Now what?"

"Gotta wait for the suspenders to cool down."

"Really." 

"Do you want Number One, Section One running about with my little Chief Enforcement Agent hanging out?"

"Please, no."

"I didn't think so. As much as you do enjoy his company, this just isn't the place for shenanigans."

"Can we hurry this process, Napoleon?"

"Got a cup of water?"

"No."

"Guess not."

Illya took the back suspender clip and began to wave it around to help it cool. Napoleon swung the other two clips. 

"I really don't think the delay will matter," Napoleon continued after a few moments. "These idiots are not guarding the door anyway."

"I noticed the lack of guards," Illya commented as he tested the metal piece with his thumb and forefinger. "This Hayward is very lackadaisical." 

"Not so much lackadaisical as shortsighted," Napoleon said, pulling in the two clips. "He doesn't see us as a threat now that he thinks we have been neutralized."

"How amateurish of him."

"Be kind. He is still a kid."

"That much is evident," Illya replied dryly. 

They slipped through the door and out into the complex, followingthe way they had been brought until reached the first floor level. At an intersection in the main hall, Napoleon turned left as Illya turned right. Both men stopped to glare at each other.

"Where do you think you are going?" Illya eyed Napoleon suspiciously. 

Napoleon knew what was rolling though his partner's brain. He was not senile, but he did get turned-around a little too easily these days. Napoleon had a hunch that Illya thought this was one of those days. 

"To finish wiring the explosives," Napoleon answered nonchalantly. "I guess you thought we were heading out?"

"Yes." Illya frowned again. Napoleon figured that if Illya were prone to dramatics, he probably would have slapped his forehead in exasperation. "Don't tell me. Let me guess. They never checked what it was that you were up to?"

"I seriously don't know, but I'm willing to bet they didn't."

Amused, Napoleon watched as his surly but beloved partner allowed his irritation to settle before following him down the hall, deeper into the complex. He promised himself an evening of Illya soothing; the game was always an enjoyable challenge. If played properly, the rewards could be luxuriant. Napoleon kept his satisfied smile to himself. 

There were still no guards anywhere in the corridors. These hooligans really did think they were in the clear, didn't they? The partners slipped easily into the weapons lab, which was roughly the size of a small warehouse. There was only emergency lighting to guide their steps. They moved cautiously. To the left, along a wall close to a loading bay, there were empty wooden pallets stacked ten deep and five high. The pallets were conveniently close to a small munitions dump. Napoleon slipped behind the first row of crates with an agility that most would not have imagined in a man his age. 

"Still here," he announced in a softly pitched voice. 

"Need a detonator?" Illya asked. Napoleon smiled to himself as he heard the soft drawl of sarcasm in his partner's voice. It wasn't likely that Illya had a detonator. That too had probably been taken off his person along with his weapons. 

"No. I got it," Napoleon answered cheerfully, working with the plastic explosives secreted deep in the pallet stack. "Knew those jack-asses wouldn't look here…. All the dust…. Too close to real work for them."

"Hoorah for slackers."

Napoleon popped back up from around the pallets. "Let's blow this popsicle stand!"

They made it back to the main hall and were passing a short bank of freight elevators when they heard the obnoxious thump of a bass woofer turned up far too loud. Barely audible over that was a rhythmic chanting voice speaking with decisive menace. Rap music. Napoleon stopped, looking up the gated shaft. Illya came to a halt behind him, looking up the shaft as well..

"The brat!" Napoleon exclaimed softly. "They're having a party!"

"They have underestimated us very thoroughly," Illya said. 

"Amazing that this crew was able to bring down two of UNCLE's better enforcement agent teams," said Napoleon.

"The other teams were younger," Illya surmised. "Hayward didn't take them for granted."

"Hm." Napoleon snorted in irritation. 

"Let's go, Napoleon. I wouldn't want you to miss your TV shows." Illya patted Napoleon affectionately on his rump. Napoleon smiled a simply wicked smile.   
****

The first explosion was a muffled thump, but it was followed by a series of stronger explosions that shook the ground. The last one blew the north side of the complex wall clean off and sent flames and smoke billowing up at least 30 meters in the air. 

Lying flat under the cover of a thick stand of trees, the two elderly spies watched as the complex went up without a slip. Illya lay with Napoleon's body partially draped over him in a half-hearted gesture to protect him. Illya had seen this many times over the years. This was an automatic response for the older agent, something he reserved for the objects that he prized. Illya had long since learned to tolerate his partner's possessive needs. He had known the man for over thirty years; it was too late to try to change him. However, once the danger of falling debris had passed, Illya bucked gently beneath him to let the older and heavier agent know it was time to move. Instead of the response he was looking for, Illya received the feeling of a warm hand roaming over the loose folds of his black gi. 

"Can this wait until we have had a shower?" Illya asked calmly.

Napoleon sighed. "I suppose." But his fingers still grazed dangerously close to a nipple. Illya pushed up sharply again, and this time Napoleon relented. Both men slowly extracted themselves from their tangled, prone position on the ground.

"My joints aren't up to the abuse anymore," Napoleon groaned, bracing himself on a tree trunk as he rose from his knees to his feet. "It never hits you until it's all over."

"Your adrenaline levels are dropping," Illya explained. 

"I'm over seventy. That's not the only thing dropping on me."

"I hadn't noticed," was Illya's sardonic reply. 

In response, Napoleon pulled him close, rubbing shamelessly against him.

"I assume this means you don't want to watch TV?" Illya smiled, turning in his partner's loose embrace to face him. He was immediately attacked with quick gentle nips along his neck and jaw. "QED," Illya breathed out in an amused sigh. He then pushed gently, drawing the insistent lips away from the delectable dance they were doing on his neck.

"Dare I ask?" Illya said as he searched Napoleon's heated, dark gaze. "In all this… melee, did Hayward, by chance, confiscate your transportation?"

Napoleon instantly snapped back into focus and patted his pants pocket. Within seconds, he dangled a key before Illya's eyes, grinning. 

"If I weren't so relieved to not have to do more work, I'd be rather irritated with you, Napoleon." Illya matched his partner's triumphant grin with a wry look. 

"Car's a little west of here," Napoleon said as he turned Illya by his shoulders. "I hope it is still there."

"At this juncture, I fail to see why not," the Russian said sourly. "This would have been a good lesson for Hayward to respect his elders."

Napoleon smirked. "Well, too bad he didn't live to learn it." They set out for the car with Napoleon chuckling.

"Heh, Old School…"

End


End file.
